


Languishing

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Disappointed Masturbation (see chapter two), F/M, Intense Melancholy, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:56:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>languish, v.<br/>to be or become weak or feeble; droop; fade.<br/>to lose vigor and vitality.<br/>to undergo neglect or experience prolonged inactivity; suffer hardship and distress.<br/>to be subjected to delay or disregard; be ignored.<br/>to pine with desire or longing.<br/>to assume an expression of tender, sentimental melancholy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he kisses her, his body is bent like a broken branch and he is _yearning_.

The second time, _she_ kisses _him_ , and the sun washes sparks of blue into her hair.

The third time he kisses her, he is taking the portrait down with his mask stowed like contraband in his pocket.  She does not kiss him back.

 

* * *

 

The wind whips around the gazebo and wraps her in its cold embrace.  Her hair lifts from her shoulders and rises like a dark halo into the air.  The stars are singing.  His eyes are bleeding passion, as his lips would do if they were not frozen open in awe of her.  The strength of his longing is so acute that she can feel it towing her toward him.

They dare not speak its name.

But his eyes say it, and his hands say it, the broken posture of his shoulders and the uneven shifting of his feet.  And they cannot do this, not now and not ever.  And his love has ruined them.

He turns and bolts before he can make the same mistake again.  Before he knows it, his body is colliding with the sea and he is floating, the motion effortless.  He dips below the surface and swims until the air has run out, which is soon.  His lungs contract as they had during that terrible, awful moment only hours ago.  He crawls out onto the shore with throat burning and arms decimated by cold and lies there, watching dawn.

 

 

She finds him in hot water when the morning is ready to begin.  The coat of office lies on the washroom floor, smelling of the sea.  His chest wears too many scars but not nearly enough clothing, and his eyes are still closed.

Stupidly, foolishly, impulsively, she steps forward.  He starts to wakefulness, hesitates for a moment before beginning to stutter and curl into himself as if to hide his nakedness.

“Your Majesty, please—I’m not decent.”

And she is caught in time and his eyes are large and confused and _frightened_.  His voice grows muted as she stares, and the details blur around the edges as if she is waking from a dream.

She disappears without even shutting the door.

 

 

He does not appear at her side that day, the cold Serkonan shadow affixed to her shoulder.  She explains to the busybodies of the tower that he is ill, though she will not tell them what his ailment is.

Love, she tells herself.  He is lovesick, and there is no cure.

Word of the plague comes that day, and there is nothing that she wants more than to turn and bury her face in the sandalwood scent of his shoulder and let the universe fade away.


	2. Chapter 2

The next weeks are a battle, and he soon sees how ill-timed his wordless confession was. He never leaves her side again, superstitious against worsening her pain. How poorly she fares if he is not there to watch her. How his heart yearns to be near her at all times. If she is not within his sight, Dunwall will fall. This he knows. It is the weight of fathoms on his chest.

And each night, when she returns to her chambers, she glances sidelong after him. When he bows and rises again, her eyes are fixed to his face and she will not look away until he asks for her leave. This she does several nights in a row, until at last he must stop and ask her. What does she mean by it?

She grows still and soft and quiet, nothing like his empress at all. Her eyes flick from his face to his chest (scarred, scarred, muscled chest) and back up again, then to his sword. The most important piece of him. Her words are uttered in turning, a hand on the edge of her bedroom door. “I didn’t realize. My apologies… Corvo.”

His name sounds so lovely on her lips that he bursts forward to pursue it, but the door shuts in his face and he is left there alone, a fool. She wears no perfume, the empress, but her scent lingers. She smells like home.

It keeps him up all night, her image. It happens in the bath again. Of course.

She is there with him as she was a handful of weeks ago, standing only a few yards away. Watching him. Her hair is loose this time, falling down, framing her face. It brushes against her cheeks with the lightest of touches, and he yearns to reach out and tuck the stray locks behind her ear and press a kiss to one exquisite temple.

When she comes forward this time, she does not stop. Her cape falls to the floor, then her coat, her collar, her shirt and her trousers and her underwear. He watches in rapture as each garment piles on the ground, admires the curves of her body that he has so long imagined glimpsing beneath her clothes. Then at last, she steps out of her boots and winces as her feet meet the cold stone of the floor. A bare toe tests the bath water, curls delicately inward when it is found satisfactory, and eases down to support her weight. She lowers herself on top of him, straddling his hips. Warm, soft, strong, beautiful.

His back is arched, his skin cooling quickly where it has left the water. His arm pumps wildly and his eyes are screwed shut and she is there in front of him, on top of him, bending to kiss his neck, cupping a hand around the back of his head and threading slender fingers into his hair. She rides him hard and finishes him off, and when he comes gasping into his palm, she has the audacity to disappear.

He sits for a while and lingers until the bathwater goes cold. With the chill nipping at his skin, he dries himself off and clambers into bed alone.

\--

Her face is broken when she gives him the news. There are tears clinging to her eyes. He wonders if the safety of Dunwall is the only reason he is being sent away.

She feels it. Every time he looks at her. Hears it in his voice when he bows his head and begs her to let him stay. She cannot feel her heart beat, for it is no longer within her. It is in his hands, under his protection, as are her life, and her dreams, the fate of Dunwall itself. When he looks up at her, he steals her breath as well, bundling it up with everything else to keep by his side. And by the time he goes, there will be nothing left of her. Doesn’t he know that? He looks at her as if she is tearing his soul apart, as if she is the one to blame for this wrong. But she is destroying herself to send him, and it makes her hands shake and her lips quiver, and she must turn away quickly to wipe at her eyes before anyone sees. And he steps forward immediately, because the Lord Protector must never stand idly by while his empress languishes in pain. Not even if she inflicts it upon herself.

“Your Majesty. Let me help you.” His voice is somber and earnest and emaciated. His emotions become more obvious by the day.

“It’s nothing, Corvo,” she replies, smoothing a finger across her cheek to banish a tear. “Leave me be.”

And he reaches around her and offers a bit of cream-colored cotton with a bow just a few inches too low. He stares at her with intensity, shoulders angled carefully so that no others can see, and urges her with his eyes. “It must be the flowers this time of year. I know how they affect you.”

What a lie. What a careful lie. It is so strange, so _alarming_ from him, that she almost gasps aloud. She takes the handkerchief, however, dabs gently at her face and sniffs. So the day has finally come. Dunwall has finally corrupted him. He is a beautiful, careful liar now, a diplomat. Where is the raw, clumsy Serkonan she knew before? Does he still exist?

A stupid question. When she glances back at him, that man is as present as always. His mouth twitches into a smile, a distinct _“Are you impressed with me?”_ , and she knows that he has never left her. Only learned a new trick. One that he will continue to show off as much as he possibly can.

If he returns with good news, she will marry him.

“Thank you, Corvo,” say her lips, and her grin says something entirely different. The words again. The ones they will not speak.

He takes them for what they are worth. Late at night, he seizes them, crams them into his mouth, tastes and chews and swallows them. They burn in his belly and he licks his fingers, desperate for more. Like an animal. Like a starved man. And she is his sustenance.

\--

The sun is bright on the walls of the waterlock. It is here that she will say farewell to him. Not inside. Seeing his back fade into the distance will only prompt her to run after him, and neither can risk that. The guards are watching.

The gold threads on his coat stand out, bright and beautiful. He has always looked well in the sun. His hair has been brushed (for once) until it falls feather-light on his jaw, and his cheeks are practically gleaming from the touch of a straight razor. His eyes are not jade green, nor are they emerald. They are moss beside a pond, lichen on a tree. They are warm and alive and breathing, quiet and simple.

This trip will be good for him.

She presses a letter into his hand with a smile, unadorned with any of the ribbons or seals of her office. The wax always tends to get under her nails. “Don’t read this until you reach Serkonos. I’ll know if you do.”

His grin spreads to expose a neat row of teeth. He doesn’t even realize how handsome he’s being. He never realizes how handsome he’s being. It makes resisting him much harder. “How will you know?”

Her face lights with intimate charm. “I’ll ask you.” It is all she ever need do, and he will answer. They both know that, and he does not even try to argue.

“Before I go…”

Corvo steps forward, lowers his voice and his head. For a reason that she cannot explain, Jessamine is _frightened_. The same presence lingers about him that was in his eyes that night. Yearning that can turn her into liquid, heat that can melt his soul into oil for her hair. His lips grasp at stronger words before settling for something else. She sees his face darken, and the moment passes. The trepidation is replaced with vague disappointment, and for the brief instant it takes him to speak, she wonders if she has somehow misread the signs.

“I want you well,” he finally professes, and his gaze reaches her. Touches her, scrapes its hands across her body and lifts her off the ground and makes love to her. And it is not much in Gristol, but she knows what it means in Serkonos. What he is trying to say.

The guards are watching. Damn them all.

She reaches forward and winds her arms around his neck and stands on tiptoe to embrace him. His body reacts before his mind has time, hugging her around the waist until he’s practically squeezing the air out of her lungs. It’s good to be held, on occasion. Physical contact is so much more than the debauchery that the court gossips and the Abbey (sometimes one and the same) make it out to be. He feels it this time, on his skin. Home.

She leans up and whispers into his ear. “Make me one promise before you leave.” 

“Anything,” he replies, his breath hot and rasping with passion.

“Don’t look back when I let go of you. I want this to be the last time I remember seeing your face.” Another stupid idea, perhaps. But an empress’s life is about seeking small moments for her own survival, the checks and balances that measure happiness against prosperity, sacrifice against sacrifice. This will tide her over.

She can practically _hear_ the smile in his voice when he answers. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

And she pulls back, arms still draped across his shoulders, and looks at him long and hard. Studies every line of his face, traces every contour with the lips and tongue of her mind. They are archived and carved into every layer of her consciousness. Then she closes her eyes and kisses his cheek and seizes a moment, steals it away because there are so few and she must grasp for them while she can. One kiss for desire and one for friendship, and it is all they will ever have. And it may be enough.

At last, she releases him, pushes firmly against the center of his chest and tries not to cry again.

“Go.”

And he does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a hundred million years to finish. Not because I strove for quality but because I'm an idiot.

Dunwall lies in ruin. Outside, the Lord Regent’s voice plays on loudspeaker. Inside, he is raving to himself about watchers and assassins in the night. His suspicions are not entirely unfounded.  
  
The fire warms Corvo’s legs as he reaches up to grasp her. Wood ornately carved and achingly insubstantial in his palms. Where is the warmth that was there on his chest? Where is the skin that was clutched in his hands? The Empress and the Empty Set. Where was he? Where is the man who once stood at her side?  
And if only Burrows would shut up and give them a moment alone together. His footsteps thump on the carpet in the other room, just meters away. The man responsible for all of this.  
  
And yet Corvo’s thoughts aren’t set on revenge. They are on the woman in front of him and above him, her place familiar. He would fall to his knees if only he could still touch her while doing so. If only he wouldn’t be seen. Even so, he can barely stand.  
  
His eyes begin to burn as if stung from within. It is difficult to breathe quietly, without the rattle of breath through a constricted throat, though he doubts that the rambling Lord Regent or the heaped and unconscious tower guards will hear him. He takes the time that he never afforded himself before – the space between breaths that expanded in awe of her beauty, the blackness behind eyelids hooded in concentration, the tightness in knuckles from fists clenched against the impending kiss that never quite came – and he leans in now. His hands are braced as far up as he can reach. His eyes are closed, the warmth of tears on his face and their salt on his lips.  
  
When he kisses her portrait, he can almost imagine. Almost.  
  
 _His body is bent like a broken branch and he is_  yearning.  
  
“I love you, Jessamine.”  
  
Why did he never say it? Why did he never  _tell her_? A sob twists its blade into his chest and threatens to wrack him. It is all he can do to choke it down before someone hears. His fists beat against the stone wall. His voice is hoarse and soft and timid. If only Jessamine could see him now. Talking to a painting. Crying at a painting. He keens, face twisted, voice soft and high and whining. Why did he never tell her before? Four months at sea, a decade by her side, and instead of grabbing her, kissing her, abandoning their damned charade for a single solitary fucking moment of mutual happiness, he had handed her the letter instead. Sealing their fate. What a difference that moment might have made.  
  
He can’t leave her behind now.  
  
Corvo unsheathes his sword and brings it to the canvas, begins cutting her out of the frame. At each careless mistake, a wince and a whispered apology. As if she can hear him.  
  
Her heart is in his pocket.  
  
He tucks the portrait down his pant leg – not the most dignified of locations, but it will have to do. He wipes at his face impatiently and holds the mask in two hands, staring down at the cloth and metal interworkings. This is what he has become now – a dead man. A hollow man. His face is skeletal, scraped of flesh by the sharp grating of his own guilt and grief. Months in prison had nothing to do with it. Perhaps in the surface level, the weakness of his body and thinness of his frame, but the atrophy is soul-deep. He is a wisp of a man without her.  
  
  
  
His fingers trace the lines of her lips a hundred times, a thousand. Rough hands stained with dirt and blood. Ink-blotted hands of a man newly restored. Cautious and secretive hands of a fresh bridegroom. Shaking and wrinkled hands that can barely grasp the canvas.  
  
He never kisses her again.


End file.
